


Snapped strings, and maybe heartstrings.

by orphan_account



Series: Fullmetal Femslash February 2014 [1]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Alternate Universe - Orchestra, Established Relationship, F/F, Femslash February
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-02
Updated: 2014-02-02
Packaged: 2018-01-10 21:40:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1164832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During the warmup for the recital, Lan Fan snaps her A-string, and suddenly the entire locker room, and possibly the rest of the world, shatters into tiny rosin-scented pieces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snapped strings, and maybe heartstrings.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Femslash February. Prompt B1 on my bingo card, "Band AU". Technically, this is an orchestra AU, but. Details, details.
> 
> The orchestra director is actually none other than Sciezka, but she needed a last name. I suppose that this is technically set in an alternate modern universe in which automail exists instead of prosthetics, but I may well edit that later (Lan Fan has a prosthetic arm is essentially the point). May plays violin; Lan Fan, viola; Winry, cello; Paninya, bass. If I ever choose to continue this AU, Edward would play the violin; Alphonse, the cello; Ling, the piano or the harp as the piece required; and Rosé Thomas, the viola. Fight me.
> 
> I've never considered this pairing before but holy shit?

During the warmup for the recital, Lan Fan snaps her A-string, and suddenly the entire locker room, and possibly the rest of the world, shatters into tiny rosin-scented pieces.

Standing beside her locker and unhurriedly pluck-tuning her violin, May jolts at the tell-tale grunt that escapes her girlfriend’s lips. Over the tremulous past few weeks of awkwardly holding hands and stealing kisses in the bathroom between classes only for May’s lip gloss to smear a shine along Lan Fan’s cheeks or for Lan Fan’s automail arm to accidentally tear May’s dress, May has gained the seemingly magical ability to differentiate between the various patented Lan Fan grunts. For instance, there is the satisfactory, back of the throat, faint smile grunt of receiving excellent marks on an exam or a viola tryout. Or the angry, from belly to nose grunt of an unexpected injury during her mixed martial arts practise or a searing phantom agony shooting through her prosthetic limb to leave her sweating and shivering for hours on the other side of the locked bathroom door, refusing to reveal her pain even to her girlfriend.  Or the bottom of the stomach excited sort of growl-grunt of beating Winry at their latest videogame obsession or besting Ling during one of their endless spars, whether physical or mental. That last one possibly constitutes May’s favourite, because it tends to be followed by a symphony of excited fist-pumping and joyous laughing and mouth-crushing kissing right there _right in front of_ everyone.

But May jolts at this particular grunt, as in her mental book of Lan Fan’s idiosyncrasies, this _particular_ grunt bubbles up from her belly only to sort of fizzle at her throat and devolve into a rolling thunder of jaw-clenching desperation. The pulse of her heartbeat at the slope of her neck jumps visibly. Lan Fan kneels beside her viola case, her automail hand wrapped about the fingerboard, her other hand having carefully replaced the bow on its peg in the case. Her eyes have widened and darkened, her lashes brimming shadows over her storm grey irises, her pupils shrunk to tiny pinpricks of desperation.

“What happened?” asks May, less to discover what she already knows and more to give Lan Fan a chance to move her tongue.

“My string snapped.” Beat. Lan Fan’s chest expands with her sharp inhalation. “My A-string.”

Pausing to gently cradle her violin within the case, May takes a step forward and crouches to the left of her girlfriend. The tip of the string in question coils in on itself with the broken half tangled about the chin rest. She sinks to her knees; their thighs touch. Her fingers brush over Lan Fan’s knuckles to settle into the warm creases between on either hand. Not that Lan Fan requires the comfort, but that the silent contact speaks beyond any words she could string together in their language or in any other. “I’ve got a spare A-string in my locker.”

“It’s a violin string. Not a viola string.”

May nudges Lan Fan’s shoulder with hers, affecting a tone of genuine curiosity. “Does it make a difference?”

Lan Fan blinks slowly, her eyebrows curving inwards. “I’m not sure,” she admits. “But I have a solo. I fear the size may be different. What if it snaps, again?” Her volume drops to a hoarse whisper, and May wonders when Lan Fan learned to bow along her heartstrings in such a rending manner. “What if it snaps on-stage? What if I—”

In terms of bowing along heartstrings, Lan Fan may have taken home first chair, but when it comes to silencing insecurities with a kiss, May at the very least makes All-State. She runs her tongue over her girlfriend’s upper lip, her right hand snaking into coarse black hair to better angle Lan Fan’s neck, and catches her girlfriend’s lower lip between her teeth to leave a slight bruise in that way that makes Lan Fan bristle and curl her fingers into fists all at once. When she pulls away at last, a string of saliva connects their shiny-wet mouths: Lan Fan’s lips have swollen around the love bite purpling just to the right of the midline. She breathes; the heat rolls onto May’s cheeks. Their gazes lock. “You’re _not_ going to mess up. And if you do, they’re not even gonna notice. “Cause you still play better than the rest of those idiots, because I’m pretty sure that they’d take one look at that solo and all those thirty-second-notes and go toss themselves off of a cliff. Then I’d have to patch ‘em up, and I’d rather not deal with _that_ headache.

“Listen, Lan Fan, you _got_ the solo for a reason. You _nailed_ it. That’s what Mrs Brzenska said, remember? You _nailed_ it, and more than anyone _you_ deserve to get that damn standing ovation. Besides, I love you, so even if you don’t believe in yourself, just believe in me who believes in you. Okay?”

May stares into Lan Fan’s eyes, into her steadily enlarging pupils, and suddenly the violist’s mouth curves upwards like an old-fashioned bow. “You think so? You think that I . . . that _I_ could—”

The door flies open. An attendance list in one fist and a rock stop in the other, Winry Rockbell, first chair cello and Concert Organiser of the Orchestra Council, pokes her head in. “For someone who has a viola _solo_ for the first time in her time in Chamber, you’re running late,” she declares briskly, blue eyes narrowed and cherry red lips pursed. In the backless black dress of the orchestra recital uniform, Winry could kill a woman or five with the mere sight of her, but at the moment, the mere sight of Lan Fan and May still hastily prepping in the locker room could kill _her_.

Lan Fan’s eyes widen and darken further, two holes torn through the fabric of the universe to the gaping nothingness on the other side of the abyss, and May glances at Winry. _Glances_ might not be the correct word: If not against the law, not to mention school policy, the acupuncture needles hidden within May’s backpack would have acutely punctured Winry’s heart. The venom of May’s expression thins the line of Winry’s mouth. At length the cellist clears her throat. “The concert starts in five. If you guys got a problem, I’m all ears.”

May starts to explain, but Lan Fan interjects: “I snapped my A-string and didn’t think to bring a spare.” This time her voice has lost its hardened edge equivalent to painful sobbing on anyone else, and an electric surge of pride, hot and glittering, streaks through May’s conscience like a bolt of Cupid’s lightning.

“Oh. Pretty sure Ninya’s got one.”

Lan Fan’s brow creases. “The bassist?”

“She’s got all sorts of scrap paraphernalia in her stuff. Some junk in her trunk. Hold on to your _maapi_.”

The door shuts. Somewhere beyond May hears Winry yelling. Lan Fan sniffs. “ _M_ _ǎ_ _p_ _ǐ_ ,” she hisses under her breath, and May giggles.

And kisses her again. While giggling. A kiss all awkward seal noises and crooked smiles not quite in sync and flushed cheeks from love _and_ laughter. Which possibly might count as one of the most pleasant types of kisses May’s ever been privileged to kiss. Mentally she notes to herself that she really ought to giggle-kiss more often.

Paninya apparates with a violin A-string in hand, rolls her eyes at her girlfriend’s inability to specify, and returns with a _viola_ A-string in hand. Squatting next to May, she inquires after Lan Fan’s knowledge of fitting on a new string.

“That,” says the violist tersely, “is well _within_ my calibre, thank you.” Removing the broken one and tossing it neatly into the trash, to May’s applause, Lan Fan fits the new string onto the peg and fine tuner. She frowns: The previously all-gold row of string protectors has given way to a pink cap, akin, perhaps, to a bleeding gash. “Pink?”

The bassist shrugs nonchalantly. “All I’ve got, sorry. I know it’s not your thing.” Her watch rattles noisily on her wrist. “C’mon. We’ve got two minutes ‘til showtime’n we’ve gotta be up there ready to tune.” With that Paninya claps Lan Fan on the back, ruffles May’s hair, and wanders off to find somewhere to shove that violin A-string from before.

Lan Fan seems to consider, her heavy gaze sweeping over her viola from scroll to endpin. May resting her chin on her girlfriend’s shoulder prompts said girlfriend to glance up. “I like the pink.”

“But—”

“No buts. I like the pink. It’s like you’re carrying a li’l bit of me on stage with you.” She grins at Lan Fan’s vibrant blush. “And if you ever feel the _tiniest_ wriggle of fear or worry or any kind of hesitation, I want you to look down at that pink. _Really_ look at it. And then look up at the chairs. ‘Cause I’m gonna be sitting right there on the edge of my chair rooting for you. Not just ‘cause I love you, but ‘cause you’re the best viola player in the entire school.” May squeezes Lan Fan’s wrists. Smiles. Winks. “Now go out there and make your girlfriend proud, will you?”

Lan Fan nods. And goes out. And plays out. And hears the standing ovation go on and on for a blissful, eternal minute.

(And feels her girlfriend’s congratulatory kiss go on and on for a blissful, eternal forever.)


End file.
